


the wretched way - kinkmeme fill

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Divergence - Yuri isn't underage, Implicit Empire Spoilers, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not really PWP, Oral Sex, Politics, Pre-Canon, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24080824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Excellent.” von Aegir smiles, gesturing to a small cushion by the hearth. A tall, golden harp stands by the flickering fire, beckoning him. “I’ll be expecting company tonight, my dear.” Of course, he was already painfully aware of that fact. The good lord paid him for two tonight. He’s quite generous, but that isn’t the only reason Sparrow prefers to serve him.Written for the FE3H Kinkmeme!
Relationships: Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc/Ludwig von Aegir/Marquis Vestra
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23
Collections: Anonymous, FE3H Kink Meme





	the wretched way - kinkmeme fill

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline is a little altered because while I will write dubcon, I won’t write underage content. I think Yuri definitely did have a stint as a sex worker, but if you go by the timeline, he would have been super young at the time (barely a teenager, based on when Rowe adopted him). He then enrolls at the academy at 18. This fill is for an AU where Rowe doesn’t adopt him (I guess?), and he’s working around 17-18. That technically also means that his name isn’t Yuri, although that doesn’t really matter in this fic. Idk, suspend a little disbelief.
> 
> Kinkmeme: https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=96220

Smoke and leather.

The nights always start with smoke and leather. Heavy, sickeningly sweet clouds of incense drift up from tiny flames flickering above brass ashtrays. A smooth, ink-dyed leather collar chafes around his neck. Earlier, he sat before a vanity, painting his face in shimmering colors and rosy hues. Heh, he’s nothing if not alluring. One last look in the shining silver of the teapot confirms it. He looks damn good.

“Good evening, my lord. How may I serve you tonight?” Sparrow steps into the room, smiling shyly as he pushes a delicate cart of fine pastries, tea, and wine through the doorway. It’s fake. Everything is fake. The name, the smile, the calculated touch of bashfulness. 

Sparrow is anything and everything a man could ever wish for. Sparrow can be shy and submissive, whining sweetly at the lightest touch of pain. Sparrow can be flirtatious and cocky, willing to push his luck until a big, strong lord puts him in his place. Sparrow can be loving and gentle with noble ladies, or rough and experienced - the type of man who actually knows how to make a woman cum.

Tonight, he’s a beautiful songstress in lilac silks, dripping with thin chains of sterling silver. Heh, say what you will, House Aegir has always had an eye for aesthetics. They dress him well, and they pay even better. He’s an independent contractor, but if his wings ever grow a bit too weary, House Aegir is high on his list of possible employers.

The lord looks up from his papers, eyes hungrily roaming over his form. Ludwig von Aegir, Prime Minister of the Adrestian Empire. Up close, he’s not so intimidating. He’s no warrior king, but a glutton. Some nobles despise him, others see him as a savior. Commoners couldn’t give a shit either way. The streets care little of his political games. Why should a starving peasant care about the ever-changing titles of lords and kings?

And yet, the Prime Minister is a patron of the arts, a purveyor of fine operas and a regular customer of Songbird, the mysterious masked mistress who sends Sparrow and the other fine little birds out to their nightly cages. They sing their lovely songs and pleasure paying customers, then return to the nest with heavy pockets and heavier thoughts. Of course, Songbird is simply another persona, but they don’t have to know that. 

“Excellent.” von Aegir smiles, gesturing to a small cushion by the hearth. A tall, golden harp stands by the flickering fire, beckoning him. “I’ll be expecting company tonight, my dear.” Of course, he was already painfully aware of that fact. The good lord paid him for two tonight. He’s quite generous, but that isn’t the only reason Sparrow prefers to serve him.

“My, what an honor.” He widens his eyes a thin sliver, catches his bottom lip between his teeth. He isn’t truly nervous, of course. “I’ll have to play all my best songs tonight, then. Do you have any requests, my lord?” He pours each of them a glass of sweet red wine, then flits over to the harp to check its tune.

“Why, I’m sure anything you sing is bound to be magnificent, Sparrow.” The lord gestures to a small stack of parchment sheet music on the mantle. “I’ve collected a few of my favorites, but please, I defer to your talents tonight.”

“ _Demise of the Garland_ ,” Sparrow’s eyes light up in earnest, “You have excellent taste, my lord.”

“It suits your tenor.” He smiles and settles into an armchair by the hearth. A few soft scales confirm that the harp is properly tuned. von Aegir sips wine from his stemmed glass, watching with kind, entranced eyes as he begins to play.

At the end of the day, von Aegir is still a noble. His hands are stained with the blood of commoners, his heart is heavy with a hundred unspoken sins. He’s as corrupt and twisted as the rest of them; just another rat in fine clothes.

At least this one has the shadow of a man.

A few songs in, the guest arrives. A heavy, black velvet cloak sweeps through the doorway, shapeless and stinking of iron. Sparrow finishes off the verse and slowly fades into a soft, hummed instrumental. The man shrugs off his coat, revealing damp charcoal hair falling in thin waves. His skin is pale and mottled, covered save for his face and a thin ring of skin around his neck. Biting eyes the color of jade peer towards him and his harp. His gaze sets Sparrow’s skin crawling.

“Welcome, Marquis Vestra.” The other lord spoke up, thankfully pulling his eyes away. “How were the roads?” Marquis Vestra… Hm, well, it’s good to put a face to a name. Explains the disquieting air about him, too.

“Better had you not called upon me on such short notice.” von Vestra snaps, irate. Sparrow plays softer tunes, harp quickly fading into the background. Their talk turns contractual, if cryptic. They’re politicians, sure, but he’s insightful enough to read between the lines. Sparrow files each morsel of information away for later. They’ve paid for his silence, but he can certainly use the information for gain without revealing its source. He’s clever enough.

Inevitably, a glass and a half of wine in, Sparrow puts his mouth to better use entertaining the prime minister’s guest. Black leather fingers catch in his hair. A firm, harsh grip pushes him further and further down the rigid length between his lips. Goddess, he tastes of bitter magic and musk, rain, and the sweat of a day’s ride. He forces his eyes shut, fights back the urge to gag. He won’t. He won’t cough; he won’t choke. It’s been many months since he trained himself out of that. 

Still, some days, he wishes he could. As if that would make things any less vile. 

It’s hard to think clearly with a cock buried in his throat, but he catches little bits of the conversation. A deal. It’s something big, something dark. Forces marching south, allies from… Hrym? That can’t be right.

He lets his jaw go slack as the man pulls him about like a doll. If the lewd, wet sounds bother either of his patrons, they don’t show it. Thick saliva dribbles onto his silks, staining them a wet violet. His jaw aches and his eyes burn by the time von Vestra is done with him. The man pulls him off, barely letting him suck in a breath before hot, syrupy strands of cum splatter over his face and tongue.

“Thank you, my lord.” Sparrow rasps, sinking back onto his knees. He swallows, waiting for the bitter taste to wash out of his mouth.

“At the very least, it seems you have good taste in whores, von Aegir.” A thin, dry smile stretches across von Vestra’s face. Green eyes pierce through his own, frighteningly sharp. “How much does he go for?”

“Indeed, I had hoped he might ease our negotiations. Clearly, I was correct.” von Aegir chuckles, “I shall give you his mistress’s calling card.”

The Marquis’ gloved hand gently combs through his hair. Sparrow rests his head in the lord’s lap, internally cringing at the feeling of seed drying on his face. More talk of stockpiling measures, mercenary bands hired under a shadowy alias. Hrym is nearly a wasteland these days, how can the Empire justify raising taxes on them? And why invest in secret patrols? None of it makes any sense…

Von Aegir is always much quicker. No shame in that, Sparrow doesn’t need him to last. If anything, it just makes him an easier customer. He wears thicker perfumes. Powdery floral notes cover the smell of dusty books and worn leather. He doesn’t really look the type, but for some reason, his boots always smell the stables. Perhaps it’s a pastime, hunting foxes with other lords or some shit. Aristocrat extracurriculars. Aspects of a finer life he’s never tasted, but can carry on idle, meaningless conversation about.

When he’s properly finished, Sparrow takes his place at the harp again, summoning quiet, lovely songs with his fingers. It’s almost just like before, other than the fact that his lipstick is smeared all over his chin, that his face is fully ruined with spit and cum, and his voice has probably gone to shit for the night.

At the end of the night, von Aegir sees his guest out. Like clockwork, Sparrow collects his promised gold from the dresser and slips out before the good lord returns, as per their contract.

Hm. Time to invest in some good, quiet mercenaries.


End file.
